


Disintegration

by edema_ruh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Analysis, Angst, Depression, Depressive Thoughts, Hurt No Comfort, Self-Loathing, Unrequited Love, Vomiting, this is just grantaire's thoughts basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edema_ruh/pseuds/edema_ruh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire feels like he's disintegrating most of the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disintegration

Grantaire feels like he is disintegrating most of the time. 

Getting out of bed was usually the worst part for him. There is no will inside his body, as if all his life force had been absorbed by the mattress overnight. Simply moving his arm to block his eyes from the light coming from the window beside the bed is effort enough and makes his heart ache. He felt like crying, but there were no tears on his eyes. Only a heart crunching weariness. 

He ends up falling asleep again, the darkness proportioned by the realm of unconsciousness embracing him gladly and welcomingly as no one ever would. Waking up is more difficult the second time, but he no longer feels sleepy, just tired. Bone-deep tired, the kind that doesn’t allow him to move more than a few inches. He makes an effort and turns his head to see the clock, finding out it's 3 p.m. Of course he overslept, but he realizes that most of the time was wasted on staring at the ceiling. 

It takes him a few more moments to be able to finally get up. He can sense the acrid smell coming from his armpits, the stench emanating from the rest of his own body. He thinks of taking a shower, but just the thought of walking to the bathroom and actually cleansing himself makes him want to fall back into the bed again. 

He knows he'll need to shower if he plans on leaving the house, though, and decides against leaving the house. Which means he doesn’t have a reason to get up, until he remembers there's still beer on the kitchen cabinet. The walk to the kitchen makes his body ache and ugly thoughts appear on his head, leaving him too tired to return to the bedroom. He decides to stay on the living room, letting himself fall on the old, ragged couch and taking a sip of the beer bottle on his hand. 

After finishing it, he decides that beer isn't strong enough for him, and decides to get up again. He wasn’t sure when, but he thought he remembered buying a bottle of vodka some time in the past. After searching for it half heartedly – sometimes, searching on the same cabinet more than once – he found it, half empty. 

He let out a tiny scoff at this thought. Of course he would describe it as half empty. 

He felt the urgent need to pee, which meant he couldn’t postpone the trip to the bathroom any longer. Leaving the vodka bottle on the floor beside the couch, he went back through the corridor into the bathroom. He pretended there wasn't a mirror above the sink when he passed it, but after he urinated and washed his hands, he could no longer ignore it. There was fear when he looked up at his own reflection, and a heart aching disappointment when he saw his own face staring back at him in the mirror. 

He was truly a sorry sight. 

No wonder why Enjolras would never love him. Who would? With the dark bags beneath his eyes that made him look sick and old, the ever constant gleam of sweat on his forehead, the greasy dark hair falling above his eyes, the acne scars all over his eyes, the huge, horrible crooked nose standing in the middle of his face, the chapped pale lips, the yellowish teeth, the big chin, the thin beard that grew no matter how much he shaved it. Not to mention his whole personality. Why would Enjolras ever love the annoying cynic that mocked him from the corner? The arrogant prick that made fun of his ideas and his speeches; Grantaire knew how much it annoyed Enjolras but _oh_ , the single spark of attention he earned for that, even if it only lasted a few seconds, was enough to make his heart beat faster and stronger. Enjolras' words hurt him deeply, but the attention he got whenever he irritated the man was worth every single verbal blow. The looks he sent Grantaire, always either disappointed or annoyed or hating, were _his_ looks all the same, reserved just for him. He could look into Enjolras' eyes for the rest of his life. 

The paleness on his face made him look sick, but he _was_ sick, wasn’t he? Always putting himself below his angel, ready to do anything the man asked and then screw it up because he wouldn’t be himself unless he screwed up. He enjoyed it, he enjoyed humiliating himself in front of Enjolras if only it would give him a single second of the man's attention. His heart ached with every harsh word or look sent towards him, but his soul rejoiced at hearing Enjolras saying his name, even if it was with scorn. The fact that he would be ready to do anything to get Enjolras' attention made his heart ache with self-loathe, and he couldn’t hold back a chocked sob that found its way up his throat. 

He was ridiculous. 

He didn’t believe anything Enjolras preached, but he believed in Enjolras. Enjolras, Apollo personified, Antinous wild, the greek marble god, the righteous angel fallen from heavens. Everything Grantaire longed for and would never become. Everything Grantaire lacked. A man of virtue, a pure man, unlike Grantaire, whose soul had been dirtied by so many sins that not even god himself would be able to cleanse it. Grantaire was already beyond redemption, but Enjolras? He was everything good in the world, the very meaning of redemption itself. Grantaire's soul longed for Enjolras, deeply, sexually, romantically, _personally_. He needed Enjolras more than he needed air. 

He would never dare to corrupt Enjolras. The filth on his skin, on his soul, would end up maculating Enjolras, would throw him away from his pedestal between the gods, would make him dirty. Grantaire couldn’t do that. He was doomed to love Enjolras from afar, never being able to touch him, to have him. He was a sinner, while Enjolras was a saint. He was not meant to be had by someone as filthy as Grantaire was. 

He didn’t realize there were tears on his eyes until his vision went blurry. He was a mess. 

He was not worthy of Enjolras. 

And yet, he ached for him. 

His weary feet lead him back to the couch, where he fell again. He grabs the phone on the table, unlocking it to see if there were any new messages. There were none. 

Why would there be? 

He felt angry; at himself, for being such a mess, at Enjolras for being so perfect, at the world for being so cruel. The world would kill Enjolras, would take Enjolras away from him. How would Grantaire live without him? 

The vodka bottle was almost finished now, and his thoughts were all messy and mixing inside his brain. A lightheadedness was making he feel less heavy, more aerial. Images of a smiling Enjolras filled his mind as he sobbed on his couch, pain unbearable inside his chest. Would it ever go away? 

He passed out, both from drunkenness and weariness, and woke up only hours later, when it was already dark and nearly at the time of the weekly ABC meeting. He decided he wouldn’t attend this one, turning on his side instead and stumbling himself up. He grabbed as many beer bottles as he could from the freezer and returning to the couch. He usually didn’t miss a chance to see Enjolras, but he was too tired and unkempt to be in the man's presence. 

He could hear his phone ring through the haze that the alcohol had lifted on his brain, but didn’t bother to pick up. It was probably someone complaining that he didn’t go, and being yelled at was the last thing he needed. 

Instead, he drank the rest of the beer until there were no more bottles left, and lied on the couch very still as the alcohol took it's toll. His eyes were unfocused, staring up at the ceiling, as images of Enjolras ran through his mind. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but when he woke, a sickness flooded his throat and fell from the couch, trying to crawl his way to the bathroom in time. He didn’t make it, and ended up puking on the floor, bile burning his throat and tears burning his eyes. He fell on his back, too tired and too drunk to get up, panting and crying and sobbing for a man he knew he could never have. 

He ended up passing out again, lying uncomfortably on the floor beside a puddle of his own sick, limbs askew and eyelids half open, and that's how Joly found him on the following morning when he went looking for his friend. 

It hadn't been the first time Joly found Grantaire like that, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a random idea I had.


End file.
